


Roses

by Pleonasms



Series: Make You Feel [2]
Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Adult Themes, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, Swearing, post-Jak 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pleonasms/pseuds/Pleonasms
Summary: They'd burned hot and fast back then, and when they broke apart in the atmosphere, they burned up to nearly nothing. But now as they help rebuild the city, maybe they can try to rebuild themselves and each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, first-time AO3er, long-time fanfic writer. Wanted to add to the relatively small collection of slow burn Ashelin/Torn fics, 'cause the more the merrier. 
> 
> Yes, the title is a direct reference to that Chainsmokers song.

Back then, things moved fast.

You had to move fast, or you died. You’d become yesterday’s news.

They moved fast together, but at different intervals. He was done sprinting. He’d settled into cruise speed on the fast track to the top. She scaled that mountain within a year and caught up. It helped when they weren’t in the same chain of command anymore. It also helped they had perfected compartmentalizing to an art. If anybody had any idea about them, it was because they saw them together with their own eyes. Those that did knew better than to be indiscrete.

They’d been on an outing with some other officers. Out on a dark dancefloor where their tattoos melted away in the dark and the glimmer of neon lights, her hands ran up the front of his chest, feeling the cut of his muscles beneath his shirt. He’d be lying if when she finally caught up to him, that he hadn’t noticed her. He pulled her in close to him, and again he’d be lying if the soft kisses she’d trailed up his neck hadn’t made him want to melt into a puddle right there in the middle of the room.

They moved fast and burned hot, rocketing straight for the moon. It made for a convenient distraction from how fast it all moved around them, too, how rapidly they descended into darkness following the orders of a man too drunk on his own power to just turn the wheel and keep them from going over a cliff. Then he woke up with a hole in his chest – literally and figuratively – and the images of people being violently killed at the hands of Metal Heads seared into his memory. His only father figure had betrayed him. His men had abandoned him. And now here he was, looking at the same world with new eyes and feeling like he’d been walking in a fog for the last 15 years.

The betrayal ran deep, too deep, and through no fault of their own, they broke apart in the atmosphere, burned to nothing. And no matter what they did, they couldn’t stop it. They made their respective beds, and now they’d have to lie in them.

 _I’m dying to see you dance_ , she’d said with that same smirk on her face and that tone in her voice that made a fire burn in his chest.

But it wasn’t that simple. And it would never be that simple. It took the better part of the next two years for either of them to progress past the accusations or the arguments. About Jak. About the Underground. About Praxis. As a working team, they were a well-oiled machine; _us_  was a different story. Walls went up the second one of them entered the room with the other.

Torn found himself oddly retrospective today. Running on treadmills tended to do that to him, he’d started to notice. Most of the city was still unsafe to do anything more than kill Metal Heads, a workout in and of itself, but Samos chided him for the last time about his alcohol habit before threatening to actually do something about it. He wasn’t sure what the old sage could or would do to him, but knowing the old…er, younger Samos, he knew the sage meant what he said. And fuck it, treadmills were easy.

Easy-peasy. Go as fast as you want. Straight lines. No turns. No hills unless you wanted them. Yup, real easy.

He’d worked up a sweat by the first mile and then the stitch kicked in. He ignored it for a few hundred meters before it spread across his chest. Wincing, he pressed a hand against the scar and reluctantly turned the speed back down. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he put his hands over his head and speed walked the next mile. His chest still hurt by the time he stopped the treadmill, defeated. Scowling, he braced his arms against the machine’s rails. This wasn’t as easy as he remembered. He scowled more at his image in the mirror on the wall – time underground had reduced him, made him pale and gaunt. He felt old. Well, that was going to change.

But change could wait for tomorrow. Right now, he had a date with a heating pad.

He walked down the hallway back to his room with his shirt draped over his neck, one arm thrown over his head to try and stretch out the pain still keeping him from drawing a full breath. He paused at the door, fumbling in a pocket for his keys. “Is this going to be the new norm around here?”

He jumped, swore, dropped his keys.

Ashelin, a data pad in one hand, stood behind him looking amused. “What do you mean?” he rasped, bending to pick up his keys.

“You wandering around my HQ shirtless?”

He snorted in laughter, turning back to his door. “Only if you want it to be the new norm,” he chided. She shrugged one shoulder and eyed him up and down once before turning to leave. Her eyes lingered on the scar on his back where the bullet had entered, but he didn’t notice.

“I’m not complaining,” she said finally as she walked away. Torn watched her leave, dropping his keys one more time before actually getting it in the lock.

All right. He could handle that.

A week later, they were pouring over the various after action reports from the patrols still clearing out the Metal Heads from the city. The silence was easy, comfortable. More comfortable than it had been in a long time. At one point, Ashelin sat back in her chair, stretching like a cat. “Okay, I can’t see straight. It’s past midnight. And I’m tired of looking over the same report over and over again.” Torn reclined on a small couch, bare feet propped up on a coffee table, glanced up only briefly from the laptop he’d been typing on.

“So what do you suggest?”

“A damned drink, that’s what.”

He looked up from the screen properly this time, his own eyes blurry from staring at it for too long. He rubbed his face with his hands. Ashelin crossed the room to an ornate cabinet, opening it to reveal a decent selection in various types of alcohol and assorted equipment. He knew without looking that she’d picked whiskey. It suited her; sweet and smoky at first, but burned like hell afterwards. He fought back a yawn. “That thing make it through the fall of the palace?”

“This has been in the family for generations. It was supposed to make it through the fall of the palace.”

Sure enough, she came back over to plop down on the couch next to him and passed him a small tumbler. He closed the laptop and set it aside with one hand while the other held the glass for her to pour. She poured some herself while he took the first sip. Whiskey, sure enough. He coughed a little, liquid fire running down his gullet to settle in a warm ball in his stomach. As much as he’d drank the last few years, he could never keep a straight face for the first pull of whiskey.

Ashelin took a sip of hers with no reaction, rolling the alcohol around in her mouth before swallowing. She perused the label on the bottle a moment. “This is almost fifty years old,” she declared, mildly impressed.

“It’s good,” Torn murmured, going for another swallow.

“At least Praxis had good taste in something.”

Torn snorted into his glass, sending vapors into his eyes and making them water a little. “I guess,” he managed. This time, the whiskey was less harsh. He looked at the amber liquid in his glass, swirled it around a moment. “I don’t know shit about this stuff.”

“Not your first choice?”

“More of a gin fella myself.”

“So you like the taste of trees then.”

“Less carbs.” This time she laughed a little.

“You really don’t know shit about this stuff.”

“Nah, I don't ask questions. Just drink it.”

“Heathen.”

“So teach me something.” He turned in his seat, one long leg folded so he could face her. She aimed a relatively incredulous face at him.

“Really?”

“I’m just the punk off the streets, and you, the noble elite.” He spread his hands. “So educate me.”

She regarded him carefully for a moment, and he thought he’d almost overplayed his hand. But she turned to face him, as well, cupping her glass with both hands. They talked and drank long into the night. He learned there were four types of whiskey made locally within Haven, each with their own unique characteristics and each with their own namebrands and offshoots and craft distilleries. Or, at least there had been once upon a time. Most of them had probably been destroyed in the war long ago. Hence why all the good whiskey in that cabinet was older than they were. But they didn’t linger long on that subject.

They talked about Torn’s family some. How his little brother would pester him to teach him how to play the guitar. How his older brother would scold him for skipping out on chores. Their settlement outside the walls had been destroyed not long after Torn left for Haven City.

They talked about the first time they’d met – on the drill pad during basic training with Torn bent over shouting in her ear about how stupid she was for not being able to remember the five basic responses, they were basic, what was so hard about it, yes sir, no sir, I don't know sir, I'm an idiot sir, no excuse sir, etc., etc., while she did pushups until her arms burned. Silly basic training stories ensued. Torn shared one from his own basic where they’d stolen their drill instructor’s mask and put it on Mar’s statue for him to find a week later.

At some point, they both had gotten fairly lit. Torn had to hold himself upright on the couch to keep from falling off. Ashelin was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Erol never did forgive us for shaving his head,” she finished with a sigh.

“That’s probably why he hated us,” Torn chuckled. “That poor boy never got a break.”

“He only did after you left. You should’ve seen his pompous ass, strutting around as a newly minted captain like he’d killed Kor himself. Like a damn peacock-falcon.” She scoffed, polishing off the remainder of the alcohol in her glass. He nodded, smiling absently to himself at the image of Erol with feathers.

“What a fuckin’ punk,” he replied, draining his own glass.

She reached for the bottle to find it empty. Torn nodded appreciatively. “We did good work.” Ashelin nodded, as well, laughing softly. Torn glanced at his watch and groaned. “Balls.” He sat up to grab his boots from beneath the coffee table. “I’ve gotta get to bed. The garrison commander wants me to inspect the troops in the morning.” He stood and nearly regretted it. “’Parently that’s more important that clearing the Gardens like I frickin’ asked him to.” They’d had more than he thought. He let himself fall back onto the couch to put his shoes back on. Ashelin stayed in her spot, staring at some weird decorative fixture in the center of the table.

“You could stay.”

The suggestion gave him pause. Once upon a time, that statement would have been accompanied by a coy smirk. But now he saw a vulnerability he didn’t expect. She didn’t exactly plead with her eyes or anything, but…

“It’s probably best I don’t. We’ve …been drinking a lot,” he said gently. He fumbled with the snaps on his boots and failed to get them to work. Fuck it. He stood again to leave with them unbuckled, swayed again, but managed to step around the coffee table without much incident.

“I’ll see you out, at least.” She trailed him to the door to open it. “Have a good night.”

Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe he was just a sucker. Before he walked out, he took her hand and kissed it, running his thumb once along her knuckles out of habit.

Ashelin thought her heart would kick its way right out of her chest and fly away like a bird, but instead all she could do was stare back into those steel blue eyes to try and figure out what was going on behind them. He lingered for just a second longer than appropriate before letting her hand go. “Good night.”

The door closed and only then did she let herself relax, resting her forehead against the door for support. Five years on opposite sides of the same war, and then they’re finally in a place to talk about things, and she can’t do it. For two years, she hasn’t been able to do it. Tonight had actually been a huge step. He’d stayed longer than was needed; he hadn’t done that in a long, long time.

But she still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It used to be so easy. Almost like telepathy. Now, though, he’d been a closed door for so long she despaired of ever being able to even make a guess again. Maybe it was too late. No, they’d been talking more and more. She wasn’t sure where the change was happening, but they at least were able to talk about something more than just work. Did she love him?

Maybe.

She did once upon a time. Before the rebellion. Then he did the one thing they’d agreed to never do – keep secrets from each other. They were a team. And then he defected. She wasn’t sure what made her angrier, him leaving or him not telling her about his decision before he made it. She supposed he did try that first day in his office back from Dead Town. She thought reminding him of his purpose, of all the things that he had preached to them over the years as squad leader, platoon leader, and then captain, would help. It turned out he was looking for validation, instead, and she didn’t give it to him. She labeled herself as a loyalist in his mind, and she didn’t even know. So she burned him out of her heart with a hot iron.

But something lingered. Something that stirred in her chest whenever she saw him now. It hurt, almost, straining against the scar there, trying to heal. They were a team again, but they weren’t the same team. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so relieved than the night she offered him the position of Commander. In a way, her offering him the job was an apology for not giving him the help he needed. Him accepting it in turn was his own apology for not giving her the truth.

They started making drinks a regular occurrence – at least once a week in either of their apartments within the Freedom League HQ. They’d talk about anything, debate who would make up the new Council, the weather, or whatever. Each time the level of formality dropped more and more, and things started to feel right again.

This week, he cooked. The theme tonight was fancy food – wine and whatever random gourmet thing he could find to cook. _Damnit, I lived in a hole in the wall for five years. I’m doing what I want_ was Torn’s rationale. The downside was living in a war-torn city where highspeed ingredients weren’t just at a premium – they were almost nonexistent. It didn’t help he hadn’t the slightest idea as to what constituted ‘gourmet.’ So he settled for overpriced yakow steaks and rice noodles with some sort of tangy sauce. None of it went together in the slightest, but they had fun putting it together anyway.

Empty plates sat on the footlocker he used as a coffee table. Her coat and his armor hung on a hook by the door. Boots had been thrown aside. They reclined on the couch, laughing over another basic training story and wine glasses in hand. It took Ashelin a long time notice how close they were sitting and how his arm rested easily on the back of the couch almost around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if it was their proximity or the wine that raised the flush in her face, but she tried to ignore it.

She didn’t realize she was staring until he nudged her. He smiled a little awkwardly and coughed lightly. “You, uh, see something you like?” he joked, taking a drink from his glass. She echoed his smile, but this time she knew it wasn’t just the wine.

“Maybe.” She shifted in her seat to face him a little more. She set down her glass. “I want to apologize.” He seemed genuinely confused.

“For what?” He set down his own glass and turned to face her. She laced her fingers together, a nervous habit she’s only ever done around him.

“I realize that …it’s been tough. This position we’ve been in, I mean.” He stayed quiet, allowing her time to continue. “To go from being pretty neutral towards each other…on different sides…to us working together.” Her eyes flicked down to her hands. “Like nothing happened.”

His silence made her look up. He’d looked away across the room, chest rising and falling in a shallow sigh. “We’re professionals, Ashelin,” he said, finally looking back at her. The wall was still there. She couldn’t read him. “We do what we must to make things work. Not being able to put that aside could’ve jeopardized the recovery efforts. Kinda hard to put a city back together when the Governor and Guard Commander can’t get along.”

“But it wasn’t just that. It’s not the same.” She wrung her hands self-consciously. “We’re not the same.”

His chuckle caught her off guard. “Of course we’re not. And we don’t have to be.” He gently separated her hands to hold one of them. The roughness of his thumb dragging lightly across her knuckles sent a brief thrill through her. “I think… we just need to get to know each other again.”

Briefly, for a moment, Ashelin was transported back in time to that club when his face lacked most of its scars and stress lines, and he stood next to her at the bar, holding her hand up to kiss her knuckles in an ironic gesture to make fun of her being an heiress, not knowing what it really did to her. He’d been borderline charming then.

 _Maybe we just need to get to know each other_ , he’d said with a wink.

He didn’t wink this time, nor would she even consider using ‘charming’ in the same sentence as his name, but the door to his thoughts opened a little, and it gave her hope.

The warmth in her smile released the tension in his chest that he didn’t know was there until it was gone. She reached up with her free hand and pulled him into a kiss that he didn’t fight. The taste of her and the wine on her lips went straight to his head, and by the Precursors, how he had missed her. She reached up with her other hand to work her fingers into his hair at about the time he pulled her onto his lap with her legs straddling his hips.

They moved slowly, traversing old, familiar routes they’d almost forgotten about – how sensitive the soft part of his neck beneath his chin was, how she trembled when he stroked the tips of her ears or trailed kisses along the inside of her wrists. His hands slid up her thighs and behind her, pressing their hips closer together as they kissed. She could feel the heat building between her legs, and her hands started reaching for the hem of his shirt when he stopped her. She drew back, panting, caught up suddenly in the fight between longing and insecurity in his eyes and how wide open that door was straight down to his soul.

She nodded, smoothing her shirt and hair. The tension in his lithe body eased a little, so she shifted to sit sideways in his lap and settled for just wrapping her arms around him and nestling her head in the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped tight around her turn. He kissed the top of her head with a sigh and held her close.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, let’s get to know each other again.” She felt him smile against her hair.

“I’d like that.”


End file.
